by Simon Brett
‘Hmm. It might be difficult today. The boys and girls are in rehearsal at the moment.’
Charles took a risk. ‘Oh well, if it’s not convenient, never mind. I’ve got a long list of other dance groups drawn up. Thank you for your time.’
‘No, no, just a minute.’ As Charles had hoped, the lure of publicity in the national press was too strong. ‘Look, I’m sure they could take a break for a quick chat. Wouldn’t be long, would it?’
‘Quarter of an hour top-weight.’
‘Fine. Then I’ll tell you where they are rehearsing. It’s – just a minute, there is one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘About these photographs . . . I know your paper has a reputation for rather . . . frank pictures. I hope that wasn’t the sort of thing you had in mind. I mean, they’re lovely girls and that, but the appeal of the group has to be universal. Family audience stuff, they’ve been booked for kids’ telly shows, that sort of thing. Don’t want the image let down. They’re not your topless go-go dancers, it’s a more artistic thing altogether.’
‘Of course,’ Charles soothed. ‘No, this isn’t a Page Three feature. Sort of light-weight serious piece on how groups start and get formed and so on.’
‘Ah, if you’re going to ask them that sort of thing, perhaps I ought to be there.’
Boobed again. ‘No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Very straight-forward stuff, not trying to get any angle.’
‘I see. Oh, that should be all right. When’s it likely to be in the paper?’
‘Can’t say exactly, I’m afraid, chum. As I say, just a mock-up we’re working on at the moment – Editor’s bound to give the go-ahead, though – next couple of weeks, I should think.’
‘OK.’ Mr. Green gave the address of the rehearsal room, a police gymnasium in Heme Hill. ‘I’ll give them a buzz to say you’re coming.’
‘Oh, you needn’t,’ said Charles hastily, seeing himself committed to continuing his inquiries in the same identity.
But there was no escape. ‘Yes, I’d better. Then there’ll be no problem about their letting you in. Get some funny types hanging round the girls, you know. Bob . . . Cherry did you say the name was?’
Charles confirmed it, blushing on two counts. First for the choice of name and second for the reference to funny types hanging round the girls. ‘Right. Well, thank you very much for the help, Mr. Green.’
‘My pleasure . . . By the way, if you ever are looking for, girls for the more . . . adult sort of feature you do, I might be able to put you in touch with a very useful agency, for the . . . less, inhibited sort of mode.’
Touting for more work for brother Joe’s end of the business, Charles reflected, as he rang off.
He was a bit worried about approaching the group in his new identity (particularly on police premises) but his fears were unfounded. Mr. Green’s call had prepared the ground well and the dancers’ vanity that someone from the Press was interested in them precluded any doubts about his authenticity.
They gathered round at one end of the gymnasium, the girls sitting on low benches with their legs stretched out on the floor and the boys in sculptured poses with hands on hips.
The girls were a great disappointment in rehearsal clothes. Onstage in Hunstanton, even in the publicity photographs he’d seen, he wouldn’t have kicked any of them out of bed, but seeing them here, he felt that his feet might be more actively employed. Their leotards and bulky leg-warmers did not do a lot for their figures, creating the impression of a randomly-lagged water system in the loft of an old house. Their faces were testimonials to the skill of modern makeup and hair-dressing. With the paint scoured off and hair swept back into rubber bands, they looked like peeled grapes. In spite of his long experience of the Jekyll and Hyde propensities of actresses, Charles still found it a shock.
Interviewing them was not difficult. Like most performers, they needed little prompting to talk about themselves. The difficulty Charles found was in pretending to be interested in their anecdotes of early promise and not rushing on to the questions he really wanted to ask.
But after eight histories of stage school, ballet lessons, studio dance training and unsuccessful attempts at acting in musicals, he managed to ask how long they had all been together.
The tallest boy, who posed like a pampas grass in a fireplace and acted as spokesman, replied, ‘Ooh, about eighteen months now. Leonie and I came from The Best Thing, Wayne and Darryl were with the Black and White Minstrels, Polly, Boots and Cookie were from a little set-up called The Tootsies, and . . . er, Barbie is straight out of Italia Conti.’
The last-named looked less like a poulterer’s wares than the other girls. She was probably only seventeen, but the dark circles under her eyes bespoke more than a nodding acquaintance with the endless round of rehearsals and performances. She was the one unfamiliar face in the group, obviously Janine Bentley’s replacement.
‘Have you had your hair done differently?’ Bob Cherry asked ingenuously. ‘I’ve seen publicity photos of the group and I’m sure you used to look different.’
‘Wasn’t me, I’ve only just joined last week.’
‘What happened to the other girl?’ Bob Cherry asked casually.
‘She left for personal reasons,’ supplied the tallest boy.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Just what it says. Nothing to do with the group. No quarrel or anything.’
‘I think she’d been having boy-friend trouble,’ supplied the girl called Cookie. ‘Been having a rough time for a few months. I think she left because she wanted a bit of time to get her head together.’
‘Ah.’ Charles wouldn’t liked to have defined exactly what that meant, but he thought he got the gist of it. ‘Any idea how I can contact her?’
‘She’s left the group. Not much point in contacting her, really,’ the tallest boy insisted, seeing the available publicity about to be divided nine ways instead of eight.
‘Sure, but as I say this article’s about how groups are made up. It would be a great help if I could find her and have a chat.’
‘She won’t tell you anything shocking or awful. As I say, there wasn’t any quarrel.’
‘No, no, it’s not a muck-raking article. I’m not after that sort of thing. When did she leave you?’
‘Just after we finished our summer season in Hunstanton, couple of weeks back.’
‘Be a pity if I couldn’t contact her. Talking to an ex-member of the group would add that little something to the article, sort of extra dimension the Editor always wants. Without something different, who knows, he might not give the go-ahead for the series.’
The threat of withdrawal of publicity had the desired effect. Or rather one desired effect, in that the tallest boy gave Janine’s address. Since it was the old one, the effect was also undesired.
And left Charles no further forward. He puzzled as to how he could continue his questioning about Janine and remain in character.
But he was saved by the intervention of the girl called Polly. ‘No, that’s no good. Mike said she had moved from there.’
‘Any idea where she might have gone?’
They all shook their heads blankly.
‘You mentioned a boy-friend. Maybe I could trace her through him.’
‘None of us ever met him. She kept herself to herself. I think it must’ve been one of those very tight neurotic sort of relationships. Just the two of them in the flat, they never seemed to go out together.’
‘Hmm. So you have no other possible contact for her?’
They all shook their heads again. Then the girl called Cookie said, ‘I did once meet her mother. We were doing a date down in Croydon and had a free afternoon, so Janine suggested we went and had a cup of tea with her Mum.’
‘Do you remember the address?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think she’d have gone there now. I got the impression they’ve had a row of some sort. I think it was about the boy-friend. Janine only once mentione
d him to me. Said her mother didn’t like him and, if it came to a choice between her mother and her man, it’d have to be the man.’
‘She didn’t say his name?’
‘No.’
‘Well, could you give me her mother’s address? It might be a great help.’
‘I don’t think she’d be there if they didn’t get on.’
‘If she’s broken off with the boy-friend, they might be friends again, she and her Mum.’
‘Possible.’ Cookie gave the address.
The tallest boy and the others were getting restless. ‘Look, what is all this about Janine? I thought your article was meant to be about the group as it is now.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Bob Cherry assured them. ‘Now tell me, what are your ambitions for the group over the next year?’
And, to allay their suspicions, Charles Paris condemned himself to another half-hour of corybantic aspirations.
He caught a bus from East Croydon Station. The investigation was beginning to get rather costly in travel. After paying off a few debts and building up his stock of Bell’s whiskey, the fee for The Alexander Harvey Show was almost gone. Soon he’d have to get some more work. He’d call Maurice. It wouldn’t get him a job, but it would make him feel he was doing something about it.
On the bus he thought about Janine Bentley. Strange how different people’s views of her were. From almost everyone there came this picture of the quiet little girl, possibly rather repressed, living in a claustrophobic and private relationship with the unknown boy-friend. But how did that tally with Carla Pratt’s description of the phone call to her, of this unbalanced ‘spooky’ character? Maybe Janine did have a split personality, her quiet manner hiding the seethings of a sick mind. That would make her motivation for murdering Bill Peaky much more comprehensible.
But Charles still had difficulty in relating this image of her with her appearance. He had only seen her on stage and in the publicity photographs (and had recent cause to remember how much the skills of make-up and hairdressing could falsify in such circumstances), but he had got an impression of a certain honesty in her, something that made a direct appeal to him. Not just a sexual attraction, but a warmth.
He also got the feeling that she was naturally beautiful. Though hairdressing had helped her long blonde hair to its bounce and sparkle, its luxurious abundance owed nothing to artifice. And her large blue eyes could not have been faked; they were God-given.
Yet he was looking for this girl as a murderer. All the evidence and logic pointed towards her guilt. Well, he was too old to be side-tracked by a pretty face.
The face, when he saw it, was not pretty.
He had rung the door chimes of the suburban semi where Mrs. Bentley lived and been greeted by a voice from the other side of the door. A young voice, frightened, strained. ‘What do you want?’
‘Hello, I’ve come to see Mrs. Bentley.’
‘What about?’
‘About her daughter, Janine.’
There was a pause for some reaction which he could not see. Then ‘Mrs. Bentley’s out. What was it about exactly?’
Time for a risk, or at least a shock tactic. ‘It’s about Bill Peaky.’
This time the sound of the reaction was unmistakable. A little whimper of fear.
Another silence, then the door opened a crack. It was held inside with a chain. Charles could not see the face of the person who opened it.
‘I don’t recognize you.’ There was still an undercurrent of fear, but a new note of fatalism flattened the tone.
‘May I come in and talk?’
‘I suppose it was only A matter of time before someone came,’ the voice went on. ‘I couldn’t hope to hide here forever.’
‘May I come in?’
‘Why not? You can’t do any worse.’ The door nearly closed as the chain was released, then opened.
And Charles saw the face.
It was Janine. He could recognize that. But it was a distorted Janine, almost a cartoon version. One cheek bulged sideways, pulling the face out of true. The memorable blue eyes glinted pinkly through the slits which were all the bruised eyelids left to open. The lips, puffy and cut, were slightly parted, stiff with pain, revealing the stump of a broken front tooth. Scratches carved straight roads over the irregular terrain of bruises.
But worst of all was the hair. The splendid opulence he remembered was gone. In some places it was bare to the scalp where it had been pulled out, in others straight edges showed where scissors had been enlisted to complete the destruction.
‘Good God,’ said Charles. ‘Whatever happened to you?’
‘There’s no need to make it worse by pretending you don’t know. Come inside. My mother will be back in half an hour, so you won’t have long.’
Charles stepped inside the door and the girl closed it quickly. Then she stood back. He could not take his eyes off the ruin of her face.
‘All right,’ she said defiantly. ‘Do your worst. I can’t believe that anything can hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He said he would kill me. Is that why you’ve come? If it is, just make it quick.’
‘What are you talking about? I haven’t come to hurt you.’
‘Don’t play with me.’
‘Listen, my name is Charles Paris. I was in Hunstanton when Bill Peaky died. I have reason to believe that his death was not as straight-forward as it may have appeared.’
‘Then you haven’t come to hurt me?’
Charles shook his head gently. Slowly the girl sagged as the fierce tension left her. Then the first wave of crying struck and her body shook as the emotion took over. Charles took her gently by the shoulders and led her into the sitting room.
After about five minutes the weeping subsided and she lay back in her chair, limp as a rag doll.
Charles felt an enormous weight of pity for the girl, but at the same time he knew that while she was weak and relaxed was a good time to tackle her about Peaky’s death. ‘Janine, I think someone tampered with the wiring of Bill Peaky’s guitar and killed him deliberately.’
‘Oh.’ The inflated face looked at him vaguely. ‘You mean he was murdered?’
Charles nodded.
‘I never thought of that,’ said the girl, still bemused. But then she seemed to see some logical consequence of the premise and became animated. ‘No. He couldn’t have been. You must be wrong.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Charles didn’t like bullying this poor ruined child but, having started, he pressed on. Make the conclusion swift. ‘I know quite a lot about you, Janine. I know you were having an affair with Bill Peaky and I know he broke it off the day he died. I also know that you were ill, or pretended to be ill, after that scene with him. I am suggesting that you took your revenge on him by changing the wiring on his amplifier lead and thus causing his death.’
The girl’s expression had altered subtly. Now it looked as if a smile might be on the broken lips. Charles knew that his speech didn’t have the rhetorical force he had hoped for and he added, rather feebly, ‘Well, what do you say?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Her surprise sounded genuine. ‘I changed the wires on his amplifier? I don’t know what an amplifier looks like and I can’t even change a plug. I think you are giving me credit for technical abilities I just don’t possess. Where am I supposed to have picked up all this electrical knowledge?’
‘You learned it from your guitarist boy-friend.’
‘Who, Bill?’
‘No, the one before. The one in the rock group.’
‘I never had a boy-friend in a rock group.’
He felt an enormous desire to believe her. She looked so vulnerable, poised gingerly on the armchair. But he knew he must not be swayed by sentiment. If the girl were really mentally ill, with homicidal tendencies, then he must take no risks.
‘Listen, Janine, I’ve been through it all and the evidence against you is pretty
convincing. Unless you can persuade me that you have an alibi for the time when the wiring was tampered with, then I think you had better start explaining a few things.’
‘An alibi? What is this?’
‘Let me refresh your memory about that afternoon. You danced with the rest of the group in the opening number of the show. Then you went to see Bill Peaky, who told you he didn’t want to marry you. You had a row and then started to feel ill, either genuinely or for tactical reasons. As a result you didn’t dance in the first-half closer. A taxi was summoned to take you home, but I happen to know that it didn’t arrive until the second half had started. That gave you plenty of time to fix the wiring. The old cable had been broken during Lennie Barber’s act, but the new one was checked out at the beginning of the interval. So during the interval you crept backstage and changed the wiring.’
She leaned back, all tension gone, exhausted. ‘I think you must be mad. Or is this another of his elaborate games?’
‘Whose?’
She looked piercingly at him for a moment. ‘Never mind. So you are asking me for an alibi, are you? For the interval?’
‘That’s right.’
‘As it happens, by coincidence, I have one.’ The words were spoken without irony, just with infinite weariness. ‘I sat with the theatre St. John’s Ambulance man right through the interval until my taxi arrived. His name’s Harry. You can check with him. He’s at the theatre for most performances. So many old bods go to the shows there, they need someone standing by with the oxygen mask.’
‘Oh. I will check,’ said Charles assertively. But even as he said it, he knew she was telling the truth. As so often in his detective career, he felt his paper house tumbling around him at the first seismic tremor of logic. There was a pause. Then he asked, ‘Who beat you up?’
‘It’s not your business.’
‘Was it your boy-friend?’
A tremble of her features betrayed the truth, but she repeated, ‘I told you, it’s none of your business.’
‘And that’s why you left the group so suddenly?’
‘I could hardly turn up and dance sexily like this, could I? Assuming I could even move at the time, which I couldn’t.’ Her retort had a spark of character that suggested a warmer, livelier Janine who would be nice to know in happier times.